


Fashion Police

by IdrisEleven



Series: Da Vinci's Ficlets [2]
Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M, No actual ships in sight, Photo prompt, Sassy Zoroaster, very short fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 12:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6705259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdrisEleven/pseuds/IdrisEleven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zoroaster is not impressed with Riario's fashion sense, and has thoughts. But is he really angry, or is something else going on?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fashion Police

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a collection of photos posted on Tumblr.
> 
> <http://romibsauce.tumblr.com/post/143605224260/not-a-writing-prompt-per-se-just-an-appreciation>

Zo is already ranting as he enters Leo’s workshop, has already worked up a good head of righteous indignation, after his latest street encounter with the Count Girolamo Riario. 

“I mean, that is just fucking _ostentatious_ , that is. The _size_ of that pommel and hilt! It has to throw off the handling, it can’t possibly be balanced properly.”

Leo’s workshop is a mess, but there is always food and drink here. Zo goes straight to the fruit bowl and grabs an apple that he proceeds to chew through, spraying partially masticated fruit as he spits out words.

“I mean, look at the size of that ornamentation. No wonder he uses a dagger as his go to weapon. You’d have to be over compensating all the time with all that weight over your wrist.” Zo pauses for a second, looks down at the blade slung at his own hip. “You want something that will just slide into your hand when you grab for it, not something that will fucking slice up your own palms if you miscalculate.”

Leo is busy sketching something that Zo can’t see. He hopes it isn’t the Count again. There are entirely too many sketches of that prick for Zo’s liking. At the moment, however, Leo has paused, perhaps calculating numbers in his head, or searching for the perfect word to convey a thought. So he hears Zo’s last sentence, and his laugh is unmodulated.

“Has one of your lovers augmented his anatomy with dangerous jewelry, Zo? If you would stop with the tuppenny uprights against alley walls, and bring him home to your actual bed, you wouldn’t have that problem. Just reaching into a man’s pants can turn up all kinds of unfortunate surprises.”

Zo throws the apple core at Leo’s head, but it fails to connect. “No, you unshriven sodomite, I am talking about _the Count_ and his pretentious sword.” A pause, and he clarifies. “I mean the actual weapon that he actually carries. That stupid blade that basically looks like a giant cross. It’s not like he doesn’t already have damn crosses sewn all over his clothing, he doesn’t need one large enough to actually crucify someone on.”

Leo smiled, and turned back to his pages, writing now, that curious reverse lettering. Zo could read it, of course. It wasn’t a secret, it was just easier for him to write, an accommodation to his left-handedness, because he didn’t have to worry about smudging the wet ink with his hand. The only problem was that Zo had trouble reading it upside down, which made it harder to figure out what Leo was up to.  
“Jealous are we, Zo?”

The dismissive snort is loud and emphatic. “I am not jealous. Good taste is not the same as envy, Leo.” He looked around for something else to eat. Zo is always hungry—it is a habit left from when he was young and never had enough food. “Have you noticed how long it is? It’s fully half his height, which is completely ridiculous unless you are in the battlefield using both hands.” He could see Leo’s shoulders shaking, although his friend managed to keep the laugh silent. “I am still talking about his actual weapon, Leo. I don’t have any interest in being metaphorical here.”

Leo has his doubts about that, but he keeps them to himself. For now. “Is that your only complaint, Zo, his fashion sense?”

Zo has found a bottle of beer, and is drinking it quickly, the better to get drunk. Leo knows this trick, recognizes it, although it rarely works for him with something as mild as beer anymore. He has graduated to more esoteric, more powerful, substances. 

“It’s enough, fuck you very much, Leo. A man that vain can not be trusted.” He takes a moment and looks down at himself, his linen shirt worn completely open, his elaborate jacket, with the frills and embossing. “It takes one to know one.” He tosses back another enormous mouthful of ale. “At least I don’t wear so much fucking jewelry. I mean, what is that thing on his cloak, eagles? A fucking brooch? A pair of eagles to say ‘I am a fucking Roman carrying my standard, so SPQR motherfuckers’?”

“You are drunk, Zo.”

“Yes I am, and tomorrow I will be sober, but Riario will still be a vain asshole. Do you know how expensive black clothes are? He doesn’t wear them by accident, you know. Anybody who knows anything knows that black is the most expensive color—it has to be re-dyed so many fucking times to get it that dark. You just know that he wears it because he admires the way it looks with his hair and his beard. Nothing else plays off his coloring like black does, and he fucking knows it.”

“You sure you aren’t jealous, Zo?”

“Fuck no, man. Not jealous of him.”

Leo thought for a moment. There was something about the slight emphasis Zo had put on the word “him.” They had known each other for a very long time, and he understood his friend better than Zo realized.

“And what you would do if that prick were here right now, Zo?” They say “ _in vino veritas_.” It also works with beer.

“I would look into those big dumb dark eyes of his, and then I would climb him like a fucking tree, Leo. Like a fucking _tree_.”


End file.
